


Tonight You Belong To Me

by johnwatso



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, First Time, M/M, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock's First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6220981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You love me, too,” Sherlock said, and now he was surprised. At himself. Where on earth had that come from? The place in his mind palace marked No? Shit. He was busy mentally berating himself, his eyes on the floor when -</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s eyes snapped up. Had he heard right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Somebody New

**Author's Note:**

> _I know you belong_  
>  To somebody new  
> But tonight  
> You belong to me
> 
> Although we're apart  
> You are a part of my heart  
> But tonight  
> You belong to me  
> ...  
> My honey I know  
> With the dawn  
> That you will be gone  
> But tonight  
> You belong to me

It had been a tough case. Not emotionally, but physically. Both John and Sherlock were bone-tired. But happy. Sherlock thought John looked particularly handsome - his hair slightly ruffled, his eyes crinkled from smiling, his features exhausted but adorably soft. And even though it was almost midnight, John followed Sherlock back to Baker Street and got out of the cab when he did, went up the stairs with him.

While John hung up his coat and scarf, Sherlock took stock of him. It was rare that he was allowed to openly stare at him this way, when John wouldn’t notice, and Sherlock never took it for granted. Every opportunity to analyse everything about John for later consumption was appreciated. He started, this time, with his eyelashes, a familiar landing spot. Their length. The way they cast shadows on John’s cheeks as he blinked. If Sherlock were allowed, he’d lean in close, let John pepper butterfly kisses on his cheeks. Sherlock shivered just thinking about it.

“D’you want some tea?” John asked, walking to the kitchen.

Sherlock didn’t bother answering, because John was already taking two mugs out of the cupboard and boiling the kettle. He smiled to himself. Old habits die hard. He remembered nights - many very similar to this one - where they’d be up late, drinking cups of tea that John automatically made, sharing companionable silence or talking about nothing and everything. The domesticity of the memories made Sherlock’s stomach feel warm, but also achy. Not for the first time, he wished things could have been different. Any way but the way they were now - the fact that John was expected home some time tonight a cloud over the whole evening. To his pregnant wife, no less.

“Actually, sod this, let’s have some scotch,” John said, surprising Sherlock, pulling him out of his reverie. He flicked off the kettle switch and pulled two glasses from the cupboard, as well as the bottle of scotch.

Again, Sherlock didn’t have to reply before John was pouring him a glass and handing it over to him.

“A toast,” John said, settling into his chair.

“To?” Sherlock asked, mimicking John’s actions in his own chair.

“To another case well solved,” John lifted his glass towards Sherlock in a salute of sorts, “Well done, Sherlock. Astonishing, as usual.”

Even after all this time, Sherlock couldn’t help but blush at the praise, trying to suppress a grin. Failing quite miserably.

To his astonishment, John downed the entire contents of his glass in one go, holding up the empty byproduct in another salute. Sherlock, of course, followed suit, reminding himself all the while that he couldn’t handle his liquor quite like John could, but not caring in the slightest. That was Sherlock. Where John went, he wanted to go, too. No matter the consequences.

John stood up to grab the bottle from the kitchen counter and, again, Sherlock admired him, this time feeling a little warmer and more confident in his gaze. Which, at that moment, had drifted to John’s spectacular arse. He really did have a great arse. He wished he could tell John so, one day…

John came back and topped up their glasses, downing the second in the same way he had the first. He looked at Sherlock once he had done so, waiting. Sherlock downed his, as well, and John poured some more in their glasses. This time, thankfully, he reclined back into his chair and sipped from it, setting the glass on the table next to him. He slumped down in his chair a bit, letting his legs hang open. Sherlock, a little - okay more than a little, he had to admit - tipsy by this point, almost salivated. _Pull yourself together_ , he thought, embarrassed at his desperation. The alcohol had made him less rigid, though, and all sorts of thoughts were crashing through the walls he had so carefully built since John and Mary’s wedding, when he had finally, _finally,_ admitted to himself that he wanted, needed, had to have John. That he loved him.Thoughts such as, _I wonder what it smells like, at the place where his thigh meets his groin. I wonder what it_ tastes _like. I wonder if he’d shiver in delight when I took him into my mouth. How sensitive he is. How vocal he can be._

Sherlock slumped down into his chair, too, while sipping on his own drink. He regarded John for a moment and then - 

“You love her,” he said to John. His eyes were heavy and his posture relaxed, his drink slack in his right hand. He had no idea why he said it, but it was exactly like him to have to state the things he knew as facts.

“Yes,” John replied, seemingly unperturbed. 

And Sherlock was unsurprised. He did love her. He married her. He was still going home to her, this very night.

“You love me, too,” Sherlock said, and now he _was_ surprised. At himself. Where on earth had that come from? The place in his mind palace marked _No_? Shit. He was busy mentally berating himself, his eyes on the floor when -

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up. Had he heard right?

John smiled slightly, his eyes softening even further. Sherlock felt as though his brain was flatlining, in the most confusing, amazing, awful way possible.

A sea of thoughts, previously buried very deep down, were now being allowed through: _He has always loved you, but you’re probably not good enough for him, and he knows it. That’s why he chose her. If you had a chance with him, you’d only break him anyway. He thinks he loves you, but if he got a chance to actively_ love _you, he’d be proven otherwise in a very short amount of time. You’re just his -_

“Hey,” John interrupted his thoughts. He was staring at Sherlock, concern written all over his features. He had the same look when Sherlock got hurt, or when he went quiet for too many days.

Slowly, gently, softly, he leaned over, reaching out to cradle the side of Sherlock’s face with his left hand. He stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone and, if Sherlock didn’t know better, he could swear that his eyes were welling up slightly.

Through his scotch-laden fog, once thing remained clear to Sherlock: John was looking at him as though he was the most precious thing in the world. 

“John,” Sherlock could only say, pressing his face into the touch, rubbing his cheek along John’s palm and closing his eyes. He pressed a small, chaste kiss to the inside of John’s hand, and then another to his wrist.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice suddenly deep and raspy. “Sherlock, would it be alright if… I think we should maybe move this. To your bedroom, Sherlock. If. If that’s alright with you.”

Sherlock responded by taking John’s hand in his, standing up and leading the way.


	2. A Part

Once in the bedroom, any temporary boldness that Sherlock felt (thanks, in no small part, to the scotch) seemed to vanish. He felt uncertain. As though he had dreamt it up. Luckily, John, as ever, was there to reassure him. With his hand, first on Sherlock’s bicep, and then moving to his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss itself was good. Better than good. Great. A great kiss, Sherlock supposed. What made all the difference in the world, though, was _who_ he was kissing. _Finally_ kissing, that is.

As their tongues touched, Sherlock couldn’t hold onto his reasoning and logic and imposing _thinking_ anymore. It was as though John wiped that all away, with just his soft mouth, his slightly bitter breath and his glorious, hot tongue.

John began unbuttoning first his own, and then Sherlock’s shirt, shrugging them off in that order, too. Sherlock shivered, even though John had seen - and, thanks to many injuries and just being roommates for all the time that they were - much more of him than this. It was the intimacy that seemed to ignite him. Next were their trousers, which John undid while still managing to keep his mouth on Sherlock’s. He tugged at Sherlock’s pants once his trouser button and fly were undone, and Sherlock took the hint, pulling both trousers and pants down, and then kicking them off with his legs. 

John broke off the kiss to look down at Sherlock’s body. His face went all soft again, and Sherlock couldn’t help the warmth creeping up his chest and onto his face. Feeling a bit exposed, he raised his eyebrows, pointedly gazing at John’s trousers, and John responded by relieving himself of trousers and pants, too.

It should have felt awkward, standing in the entryway of Sherlock’s bedroom, starkers and, to be frank, a little bit chilly, but it didn’t. It somehow felt right. Good.

Sherlock didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because John soon enveloped his face in his hands, kissing him even deeper than before, both of their arousal apparent in not only their cocks, but the way they were biting, sucking and licking at each other. John moaned slightly, and Sherlock felt dizzy. He hurriedly kissed his way down John’s throat, and John walked them over to the bed, pushing Sherlock slightly until he fell down. John climbed on top of him, and the hunger in his eyes made Sherlock visibly shudder.

“Alright?” John asked, taking a moment to back off, his expression being replaced by one of concern.

Sherlock answered by pulling John back onto him, kissing at his mouth, his eyelids, his cheeks, his throat, anything his lips could reach, really.

John settled further down, pushing his body onto Sherlock’s, setting Sherlock’s entire body on fire when their cocks touched. He rolled his hips a little, causing Sherlock to whimper in a way he would probably find embarrassing if he wasn’t too far gone to actually give a damn. 

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John, rocking his hips up and down, allowing their cocks to rub together even more. By now, John was biting at Sherlock’s bottom lip, and they were both breathing as though they’d run a 5k marathon.

“Do you have… anything?” John asked and Sherlock flung his arm in the direction of his bedside drawer in response, too turned on to vocalise. John shimmied towards the drawer, despite Sherlock’s protests at the loss of _John_ between his legs. When he shimmied back down, though, he had lube, so Sherlock couldn’t complain.

“May I?” he asked, flipping open the top. Part of Sherlock was terrified. He hadn’t _really_ done this before. At least, not to the extent he was certain this was going to go. Most of him, however, was thrilled. This was John. _His_ John. The man he’d loved for longer than he ever admitted to himself. The friend he trusted more than anybody else in this entire world. The one and only person he found sexually tantalising - to be frank, in both past and present. So Sherlock nodded. _Yes, John, you may._  

John coated his fingers in lube while Sherlock watched, his heart hammering harder as he did. He lowered his hand, teasing Sherlock’s entrance with one finger before pressing in. Before long, he had two fingers inside, massaging Sherlock in ways he’d never imagined before, sending pleasurable little electric shocks up Sherlock’s spine.

“Ah, you’re beautiful like this,” John said roughly, and Sherlock groaned in response, the praise, as usual, sending spikes of pleasure through him, only more heightened now.

“John,” Sherlock managed to breathe, “John, I need you.” Because he did. Need John. Not only now, but always. In more ways than he’d care to admit, even to himself.

Sherlock whined as John pulled his fingers out, even though he knew that what was coming would be even better. He just needed John, any part of him, inside of him, right then.

“Alright,” John said, lubing up his impressive cock and lining up with Sherlock’s entrance. “Ready?” he asked, to which Sherlock nodded emphatically. John smirked at that, and pressed in slowly.

And that’s when Sherlock began to make sounds he hadn’t even thought he could make. He’d never felt anything like this before. So… exquisite. John entered him slowly, giving Sherlock more than enough time to adjust beautifully.

Once fully seated, John took a second to just look into Sherlock’s eyes, the adoration laid plain for the first time. There was no denying the love between them, not after this. Sherlock began to rotate his hips, making John’s head fall backwards, ecstasy written loudly on every feature.

Before long, John was moving, too, his pace increasing the closer he came. He grabbed Sherlock’s cock in his slicked hand, pumping in time with their bodies. Sherlock closed his eyes, unable to contain himself much longer. He knew he was going to come, sooner than later.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see John looking down at him, more tenderly than he’d ever been looked at in his entire life. “Sherlock, I want to see you come,” he said simply, but that was all Sherlock needed to push him over the edge. Before he could think to prolong anything, he was spilling into John’s hand, shouting out _John, John, JOHN!_ like the miracle John was. The everything he was. John followed suit shortly after, his eyes squeezing shut tight, sweat droplets at his temples, his hair mussed. Sherlock had never seen anything so magnificent.

Eventually, John dropped onto Sherlock, both of them panting, sated. Sherlock closed his arms around John’s back, not caring about the sweaty, sticky mess between them. He kissed John’s forehead, the only place he could reach with the zero amount of effort he had in him. John responded by kissing Sherlock’s throat and snuggling closer.

Sherlock knew that nothing in his life would ever compare to this moment, so he did his resolute best to focus on it. On John’s breathing. On the scent of their sex. The way John stroked his side, firm but tender. Anything but the reality that John would have to leave, probably soon.


	3. The Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Rachel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fattyfat) for being a solid beta and supporter on this chapter and for giving me life.

Sherlock lay half-draped on John’s shoulder, both of them still nude, but cleaned up, thanks to John’s forward-thinking and lack of bonelessness. In his defense, it  _ was  _ his first time, and he  _ did  _ have a tendency to become overwhelmed by a large amount of stimuli at once. John was idly drawing patterns on Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock was trying his hardest to catalogue every sensation that had just occurred, as well as those occurring at present. 

“Was that…” John coughed, more out of awkwardness than anything, Sherlock could tell, and he began to dread the question that would inevitably follow, so he saved him the trouble by cutting him off.

“Yes. That was my first time. Doing.  _ That _ .”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“If I wasn’t, would I have done it?”

A silence followed, but not an uncomfortable one (things could never be uncomfortable between them, not even now). And then -

“How long?” John whispered into Sherlock’s hair and, if Sherlock had been anybody else, he might have asked,  _ How long what? _

“Since the beginning, probably. I’m not sure. Need more data.”

John chuckled softly and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, which felt so warm and intimate that Sherlock suddenly found himself fighting back little stinging tears at the corners of his eyes. Their legs were tangled together and it was a bit too warm, but he didn’t dare move.

“How long? For you?” Sherlock whispered in return, feeling insecure about it but suddenly needing so desperately to know. To catalogue every fact he possibly could  on John Watson.

“Since the beginning. Definitely.  _ I’m  _ sure,” John said, somber and soft. 

“Why didn’t you say?”

“Why didn’t  _ you _ ?”

While Sherlock was aware that John had a good point - why  _ didn’t  _ he ever say? - he was also cognizant of the fact that it wasn’t him who had openly denied it with  _ not gay  _ refutations at every opportunity. It also wasn’t him who’d married somebody else. Loved somebody else. 

Sherlock turned to John slightly, their faces mere centimeters apart, and he knew, in that moment, that he could tell John the truth. That this was the night for it. It wasn’t really about the  _ not gay  _ or Mary. When all was said and done, it was about the fear.

“I never thought… never imagined that it would do any good,” he said softly, turning away, unable to look John in the eyes any longer.

John’s only response was to pull Sherlock closer, tucking him under his chin and squeezing him tightly in his arms, as though he needed Sherlock to know that he loved him but couldn’t bring himself to say it again. Sobriety, Sherlock supposed. 

But there, in the bubble of  _ tonight _ , Sherlock had enough courage for the both of them, and couldn’t bear to leave a single stone unturned. Not after everything.

“John, I… While I certainly have professed, in the past, to look upon sentiment with a great amount of disdain, and have never - fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it - found myself in a position wherein I might need to, erm, confess certain feelings, out loud, that is, I-“

“I love you too, prat,” John thankfully interjected, allowing Sherlock to finally exhale and un-tense all the muscles he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

“It’s difficult,” Sherlock said softly, “For me, it’s difficult. Always has been. My lack of experience, and… but… I love you…” he finally said, voice softening by the word.

John exhaled hard and kissed Sherlock on the top of his head, squeezed him that much tighter, held him that much closer.

“You know, for the longest time, I thought this would happen. I was always waiting for it,” John said.

“And then what happened?”

“And then you jumped.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped at that. 

“I’m sorry, John,” he said, safe to say it in his little cocoon of John and moonlight. Safe to be genuine and vulnerable.

“I know,” John sighed. 

“Will it ever be enough?” Sherlock asked, certain of the answer, but hoping he was wrong.

“I… I don’t know…”

Sherlock kissed John’s warm chest, the only part of John within easy reach. 

“Let’s get some sleep, yeah?” John said, stroking his hand up and down Sherlock’s spine.

“And then what?”

“I… don’t know.”

And it had to be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me [@johnwatso](http://johnwatso.tumblr.com).


End file.
